


Just Fine

by WhoInWhoville



Series: FoundVerse [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Human Nature, Just Fine, UST Lite, are either of them just fine?, because they want more?, is a title for you to interpret, john smith x jane smith, not angst, or feeling very fine?, or not fine at all, or subconcious UST, perhaps pre-UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:36:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoInWhoville/pseuds/WhoInWhoville
Summary: Everything is just fine. That's an understatement. Missing scenes early on in Found & Forgotten.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Toppbanana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toppbanana/gifts).



> Written for thetoppbanana who wanted John x Jane UST or flirty banter as winner of the John x Jane missing scene ficlet for my Whoville Follower Milestone fic giveaway.
> 
> You know how in classic movies, when someone asks if something is good, the answer might be a resounding, "Fine! We're just Fine!" It always sounds sorta odd and stilted. But what does "Fine!" really mean? Fine can mean great, good, okay, perfectly acceptable, or in some cases, fine could mean the opposite... 
> 
> UPDATE 3/9/17 -- I went back and read this after I posted it, and it felt devoid of emotion, so I reworked it quite a bit. I hope it is better. I know that I am more pleased with it.

Jane Smith looked up at the clock — 8:03 am, and John Smith was right on time. She could hear him talking to the much-prettier-than-her (but very nice) receptionist. Male and female laughter mingled. Jane sighed at that, but just in passing.

Instead, she imagined herself the object of his flirtatious attentions. She’d laugh prettily and bat her eyelashes. “Oh Mr. Smith, you’re just too much,” she’d reply, and then he’d wink at her. Maybe he’d go on to ask her out to dinner and a film and he’d hold her hand in the dark and —

“Good morning, Miss Smith.”

Jane startled.

“Off with the fairies, Miss Smith?” John asked.

She nodded and smiled shyly.

“So how are you this lovely, sunny, Monday morning? Did you have a pleasant weekend?” John smiled down at her, and she became very interested in a pencil.

“Yes. My weekend was fine, thank you,” Jane answered politely, gaining courage to look back up. But then again, she couldn’t help but look. He was too handsome to ignore. His well-tailored suit, the crisp white shirt, that silver tie… And then there was the little bit of hair that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging down onto his forehead.

“Good. I’m glad it was fine. Have a good morning, Miss Smith.”

“You too,” she almost whispered.

John strode down the corridor to his office, and closed the door.

Jane could hear the flirtatious laughter of Priscilla Bootkins from twenty feet away through the thin walls. She balled her fists, and then shoved a piece of typing paper behind the roller, unsuccessfully trying to straighten it against the paper guide.

“What’s got you all in a tizzy, Janie?” asked Betty Anderson.

“Nothing. I’m fine. I just can’t get this ridiculous piece of paper to go in straight is all.” It was wrinkled and just wouldn’t do. The gears whirred as she yanked it out, balled it up, and dropped into the bin under her desk.

oOo

“Quick, Miss Smith!” John planted his hands on her desk, and leaned into her until they were almost nose to nose. “I need the name of a device that takes over someone’s mind and controls their actions!”

His breath smelled of peppermint candy. His after-shave was a blend of heady, exotic spices. She imagined herself on a veranda overlooking the azure blue, Mediterranean Sea, the sun low in the sky, his arm pulling her into his warm side. She would rest her head on his shoulder and then he’d turn his head and look down at her lips and then he’d dip his head and —

“I can see those gears whirring in your mind." 

Jane almost squeaked at the way he rolled the R’s. _Why did he have to be Scottish, too?_ she thought. 

Do you have something amazing for me?” He raised his eyebrows.

Roused out of her daydream, her head snapped back to him. “The idea of someone controlling your mind is a bit terrifying, Mr. Smith.” She bit her lip.

“Of course. It wouldn’t be an adventure without a bit of a scare now, would it?” He leaned even more closely.

Jane looked up at the ceiling. “Mind… Mind… Mindthief. Mindrobber. Thought-Thief.” She paused and shook her head. “No. The name shouldn’t sound like a machine. It’s more frightening that that.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “The victim’s mind is controlled by a Puppeteer.”

“A Puppeteer,” he whispered, furrowing his brows, his dark eyes unwavering from hers. “Fine job, Miss Smith. Fine, fine job.”

She nodded quickly, and then turned her attention back to her typewriter, the memory of peppermint candy and bay rum lingering.

oOo

“Good afternoon, Miss Smith. How is your day coming along?” John asked Jane.

Jane quickly swallowed a bite of the snack she’d been eating and cleared her throat of the crumbs. “It’s fine.” She held the half-eaten piece of shortbread so tightly that it was about to crumble.

“Do you like shortbread, Miss Smith?”

“Yes. It’s fine, Mr. Smith.” She smiled shyly.

“What a coincidence! I like shortbread, too! We’re full of coincidences, aren’t we? First John David Smith and Jane Donna Smith. And now we both like shortbread!” He nabbed a piece, and pushed the whole thing into his mouth. “But then again,” he said, mouth full, “I think it’s a rule that I like shortbread. I’m Scottish. I _have_ to like it, don’t I?” He took a second piece, and a third. “Oh, this is very good. Very good. First chance I’ve had to try it. I brought it in this morning. There’s a fantastic little bakery near my flat. They make the most delicious banana nut loaf, too…”

His voice drifted off as she imagined herself seated across from John at one of those little tables for two on a streetcorner café in Paris. The sun would be rising, and the air would be pink and crisp and off in the distance someone would be playing La Vie en Rose on an accordion. He’d take her hand, which he was already holding across the table, and kiss her knuckles, and then whisper—

“I have a brilliant idea!” he exclaimed.

Jane was knocked out of her rose-coloured reverie.

“I’ll have to bring banana nut loaf in next time. Make sure you take a piece or two of the shortbread before it’s all gone, Miss Smith.” He winked. He turned on his heel as he shoved another piece into his mouth.

Jane’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink as she watched him leave the room. She checked for onlookers before she daintily picked up a second wedge to savour later.

_You’ve gotten yourself into a fine mess, Jane Smith. You are not fine. Not fine at all._

oOo

Jane’s attention was captured as John ambled down the hallway at a slower pace than was usual for him. His suitcoat was draped over his shoulder held casually with his pointer finger. His kissable lips were pursed as he whistled a Sinatra tune. If he weren’t whistling, he would have been smiling. She could see happiness in the crinkles around his eyes. A bit of late afternoon stubble graced his jawline, but his hair was still perfectly in place — except, of course, for that one delicious piece of his fringe that framed his brown eyes.

Jane’s eyes glazed over as she paused her typing for a moment. She imagined those lips not _whistling_ , but _kissing_. They would be so soft as he gently, ever so gently, pressed his against hers. It would be under the moonlight, and he’d be a complete gentleman. Holding her close, but not _too_ close. And his arms would be warm and strong.

She let the thought drift away as he ambled on by her desk.

The whistling stopped.

Jane’s stomach lurched as out of the corner of her eye she could see the handsome man returning. She fought to focus her attention on the keyboard, but her fingers slipped, and she misspelled _miss_ as _kiss_. Her desk lurched as her foot slipped, kicking the desk leg.

“Everything all right, Miss Smith?” Mr. Smith asked kindly.

“Fine. Everything’s fine,” she stuttered. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his tie, loose.

“It’s two minutes until five o’clock on a Friday. I think it would be all right if you left two minutes early, don’t you?”

She shook her head and bit her lip. “I couldn’t do that, Mr. Smith. I—“

“I give you permission. That _is_ my manuscript you’re working on after all. I recognize my own scrawl on those notes.” He looked at his watch, and tapped it. “And now it’s one minute until five. Time to go home for the weekend.”

“Well, I suppose I could tidy up now.” Jane picked up the stack of unused paper and tapped it so it was perfectly square. She placed her pencil in front of her typewriter, and then straightened her inbox.

“So what were you working on so diligently before I interrupted you?” Mr. Smith reached in front of Jane, flipped the paper release, and pulled the paper out.

Jane squeaked as she watched Mr. Smith scan the page. His eyes stopped on the last line. “Hmm. I don’t remember this sentence going this way.” He cleared his throat. “ _Iris looked up at the Professor with longing. ‘I’ll kiss you, Professor. I’ll never stop.’_ ” A slow smile appeared.

“I’m sorry for the error, Mr. Smith. I was about to correct it when you happened by. My fingers slipped, and—“

“It’s fine, Miss Smith.” He leaned closer. “But there isn’t kissing just yet.”

“Oh… I…”

“You’re fine!” He lowered his voice, and nearly whispering said, “You’ll get to type that word soon enough. Where’s the fun in rushing things?” He winked at her.

Jane pushed her glasses up her nose and blinked once.

“Miss Smith, have I ever told you that you do fine work? Of all of the typists, you are the finest.” He grinned. “Well would you look at that. It’s officially five o’clock. Off you go! Have a good weekend, Miss Smith.”

John resumed his musical exit, but this time he sang. “A fine romance, with no kisses. A fine romance, my friend this is…”

Jane’s belly flipped and she dropped her face into her hands. _You’re going to be fine, Jane Smith. Just fine._

oOo

Bess slipped on a stylish black coat and tugged on a pair of red kid driving gloves. “What are you going to do on this dreary Saturday, darling?”

“Nothing special.” Jane looked out the window and took a sip of tea. Rain pelted the pane.

“I’m afraid I won’t be back until later this evening, darling. Luncheon with Mother always turns into dinner. I hope you won’t be terribly lonely.”

“I’m never lonely when I have a something to read. I’ll be fine.”

As soon as the door closed behind Bess, Jane rushed into her bedroom and pulled out her favourite book. She ran her hand over the cover, tracing the face of the Professor. She closed her eyes as she clutched it to her chest and sighed in anticipation. “A whole day with the Professor and Iris,” she said to herself. “A whole day with _John Smith_.”

She didn’t daydream this time — reading John’s book would draw her _inside_ of a daydream.

Oh yes, just for today, she was going to be just fine.

oOo

John paced the length of his flat. He’d been wearing a hole in the hardwood for at least fifteen minutes now. He groaned. This arrangement with Priscilla wasn’t working. At all. He was _not_ fine. He’d lost his ability to write. He was constantly in need of help. Thank heaven for Jane Smith — his very own Muse. Without Jane, he wouldn’t have been able to get _anything_ on paper.

He thought back to yesterday afternoon. He laughed at Jane’s typo and the terrified look that had been on the shy girl’s face. “Kiss instead of miss. That’s really quite funny.”

_Iris looked up at the Professor with longing. ‘I’ll kiss you, Professor, and I’ll never stop.’_

“No kissing. Not yet.” He ran a hand through his hair and dropped onto the black leather sofa. But he couldn’t seem to shake that sentence from his thoughts. “But it does feel right — the Professor _kissing_ Iris. I’ll make it happen. Soon.”

As clear as a memory, he let the future scene play out in his head. His beloved Iris would be locked in a passionate embrace with the Professor. He’d cradle her head and dip her — but only just slightly. She’d have one hand in his hair, and the other low on his back. And the world would fade away as they whispered the truth of their hearts into each others lips.

“It’s going to be fine, Smith. It’s going be fine.” If he repeated it enough, maybe he’d actually believe it.


End file.
